Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

“Tommy’s a tough little kid, though,” she said. “I like him. By the third episode of Cheers , the one where Cliff tries to get his mom to marry this rich guy? Ever see it? Good one. Anyway, by then he’d opened up, and hasn’t quit talking since. Told me about school, about his favorite band. Said his dad works all the time, doesn’t know he’s alive. He doesn’t seem too scared.” She brushed hair from her face. “But he said he saw a guy with a gun pointed at him. You didn’t use a gun, did you?”

She seemed sincere, but he’d seen the sharpness of the mind operating behind the façade. Unsure of his footing, it seemed easiest just to tell the truth. “I didn’t.”

“Evan?”

He shrugged and watched her eyes.

She nodded, but all she said was, “Can we talk in your car? I’m freezing my tits off.”

The inside was still warm, but he turned the key to get the heater running. She immediately leaned forward and flipped on the radio, scanning up and down the dial like she was searching for signals from space.

“I shouldn’t stay out here long. I think Tommy needs to go to the Loop.”

“Huh?”

She giggled, told him how they’d worked out a system for the kid to go to the bathroom, how it was funny, even though he was twelve, he’d been ashamed to mention it at first because she was a woman. Held it till he was squirming.

“I told him to call it the Loop. That’s what my mom used to say, ‘Honey, do you need to go to the Loop?’ Don’t know if he knows what it means, but he gets a kick out of saying it.”

He laughed at that, told her he’d swing by later with some groceries, microwave dinners. Asked if she needed anything, and she shook her head, still working the dial. He had this feeling there was something on her mind, but he didn’t know how to get at it. After a few more minutes of conversation, he told her he should probably leave.

“Your construction job?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you something?” She bit her lip. “It’s his kid, isn’t it? Your boss?”

He went cold. “How did you know?”

She turned back to the radio, hair swinging across to mask her face. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

“Debbie.” His voice level. “How did you know?”

“I guess I have a confession to make.” She paused, one hand on the dial, still not looking at him. “I helped Evan. Before this, I mean.” She sighed. “He asked me to follow you.”

It came to him in a flash. That was why, when they’d met, he’d been sure he’d seen her before. She’d been in the zoo that afternoon he’d gone with Karen. She’d sat on the opposite bench while they talked about having kids, planned a future diametrically opposed to what he was doing now.

“I didn’t know you then,” she continued. “And you know, he and I…”

He nodded. “It’s okay.”

“Really?” An expression of girlish relief lit up her face.

“Yeah. It doesn’t matter now.” He smiled. “Thanks for telling me.”

She smiled back at him, reached for the door handle. “So I’ll see you later?”

He nodded, and she hopped out and closed the door, headed for the trailer. He rolled down his window. “Hey.” He faltered, not sure how to say what he was thinking, not wanting to give her the wrong idea. Then, “I like your car.”

“Yeah?”

“It reminds me of you.”

“I remind you of an eighty-three Tempo?”

He laughed. “Just that at a glance, it might give people the wrong impression.”

She smiled, a friendly expression with no trace of game in it, and nodded.

Maybe he had more allies than he thought.

There were things about being a detective that Sean Nolan loved.

The almost entrepreneurial sense of being his own boss, working a case the way his instincts dictated. The look of gratitude he sometimes saw from people he treated with respect, people used to mistrusting the Poh-lice. Those fleeting instants when he knew, with a certainty that most citizens never felt, that by doing his job he made things better.

But then there were days he had to haul floaters out of his river only to find he’d known the victim. And moments when he stood with his holster unsnapped, one hand on the grip of his weapon, not sure what he was about to walk into, but knowing he would walk into it regardless.

A low-bellied gray sky threatened to open up on the old gas station at any moment. The blue Ford was parked behind them, beside where the gas pumps used to be. Matthews stood a few feet back and off to one side, keeping an eye on the street. It wasn’t anywhere you’d expect someone to live, and Nolan would’ve assumed the address was bogus if he hadn’t snuck around back to peer through a window at a tall wooden dresser and an unmade bed.

Yesterday, before they’d left what passed for a crime scene – the river had played hell with everything – they’d noticed that Patrick’s back was a darker color than his front. When a victim’s heart stopped beating, gravity pulled blood to whatever side was down. If Patrick had been shot on the riverbank and rolled in, there shouldn’t have been a chance for the blood to settle so neatly. Which meant that he’d likely been shot somewhere else and dumped later.

It could have happened anywhere. But police work was about elimination. This defunct gas station apparently used to be Patrick’s home. They might well find a pool of congealed blood inside. Or a killer trying to clean it up.

That was the thing – you had to be up for anything. “Ready?” Nolan asked, feeling the edge of adrenaline. Matthews nodded, a hand on his own gun.

Nolan took out the ring of keys they’d pulled from Patrick’s pocket. A sodden gray thing that might once have been a rabbit’s foot dangled from them. Two keys looked about the right size, but the grooves on the first didn’t fit the lock. Heart loud in his chest, Nolan slipped the second key in one notch at a time until he felt it seat. Then, gently, he eased the deadbolt back. He took a last look at Matthews to confirm the man was ready to move, drew his weapon in his right hand, and with the left pushed the door open wide. Before it had even finished opening he was in, gun pointing low. Matthews moved behind him, his back to the wall to cover the opposite corner.

Venetian blinds strangled the light. The room was an open space dominated by mismatched recliners facing a TV. A poster hung above it, Telly Savalas as Kojak. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and sweat socks. Nolan turned, still in a shooter’s crouch. Canvas screens separated the back half of the room, where he’d seen the bed through the window, and there was a door on one wall. He nodded to Matthews, who crossed to the other side of the room, pistol up, as Nolan stepped quickly behind the partition. Clear. He spun back to the inner door. There was no lock. He yanked it open, staying low.

The room beyond was the remnants of the service station garage, and the only part of this place that looked right. The concrete floor was pitted and scarred. A low-loader tow truck sat in the center, a red toolbox beside it. The space was large, with corners he couldn’t see from here. Time to step up.

“Police,” Nolan yelled, lunging into the open space with his gun leveled. “Don’t move!” His voice was a cop’s best weapon, more effective than the pistol. Aggressive behavior cowed people. They’d freeze before they had a chance to think about it. Matthews came in behind him, moving well, the two of them fluid, Matthews yelling just as loudly. Nolan stooped to look under the truck, checking for feet. He sprinted to the side and spun around it, then leveled his pistol across the hood and nodded. Matthews darted to the opposite corner to clear his lines of fire.